Tears of Blood
by kalenko
Summary: Relapse.
1. Ｉ．

Norman dug through beige putty, knuckles white, hand sore and cramping – still, he gripped the handle of the knife, gritting his teeth. He was in a cheap motel, somewhere in downtown Philadelphia. The case of the Origami Killer was taking its toll on him, the little blue vials he depended so much on where dwindling. Though the ones he had left, he couldn't simply carry around with him, and he didn't trust to just leave them in a bag underneath the bed of the hotel. That was far too obvious.

Instead he found himself sitting on the floor of the bathroom, destroying property. Digging through one of the floor tiles, attempting to open up a safety compartment, some place where he could temporarily stash his supply. He was a drug addict – his lifeline was a little blue vial of chemicals, chemicals that were severely damaging his sanity, driving him further and further to the point of cracking.

"Fuck fuck fuck!"

A loud hiss, followed by a clatter, the sound of steel hitting linoleum. Norman brought his hand up to his chest, falling back against the side of the bathtub, his head hanging in defeat. Maybe he wouldn't have to worry about the Triptocaine killing him, after all. His hand slipped, somewhere between withdrawing backwards and lunging towards the stubborn tile, he had stabbed himself…right in the wrist.

The world was fading fast, his consciousness slipping quickly. Not even realizing he had toppled over and was currently cheek-first in a pool of his own blood. He stared up at the flush-mounted light – attracted to the inevitable. He hardly noticed the pain at this point, having lost all feeling of his body what seemed like hours ago now.

There were police sirens in the distance, perhaps his imagination playing tricks on him. The scent of copper and salt burning his already sore nose – that was another downside of the Triptocaine. If there were any upsides at all. Maybe not his mind playing tricks on him after all. He could hear his cell phone ringing, somewhere in the next room, but he couldn't move.

"In'ere…"

Norman was slurring now, vision blurry, hands shaking. He was cold, oddly cold. More so than he usually was in this blasted rainy weather. If he could've have felt frightened, he would have. Someone was pounding on the door, he couldn't do anything but to yell again, this time an incoherent jumble of God knows what.

He reached for the knife, grabbing air a few times before finally managing to wrap unsteady fingers around the blade, bringing it up to his line of sight to study. The blood was all over his hand now – the sharp edge of the blade digging into his fingers, causing even more of a mess.

"Jesus Christ, Jayden…what the fuck did you do this time?"

A familiar voice…possibly Blake? But…what?

"We need an ambulance! He's hanging on by a fuckin' thread!"

The lieutenant knelt down beside him, and Norman could very faintly feel pressure applied to his wounded wrist. Was Carter Blake attempting to save his life? He glanced up at him, feeling liquid roll from his eyes. He feared the worst – he wasn't quite sure if it was tears or blood. It didn't matter, though, he couldn't keep them open anymore.

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><p><strong>AN** — May continue this at some point. For now it's just a drabble to get back in the swing of updating this thing.


	2. ＩＩ．

It was never a good feeling waking up in the hospital. There was always the hint of discomfort, a slight panic, and just pure confusion. However, it wasn't unfamiliar to Norman; he was prone to getting his ass kicked almost on a daily basis. Fortunately, it had never been because he almost unintentionally committed suicide before – that would be an interesting situation to attempt to explain while he was being dragged off to the psycho ward.

He didn't remember much about the previous night, or…however long ago it had been. There was a very vivid memory of Carter Blake, though. He had technically saved his life, and when the paramedics couldn't get the gurney up the small staircase of the motel, he had also carried him out the ambulance. At this point, the agent was slipping in and out of consciousness, but he could recall Blake swearing like a sailor when Norman absentmindedly reached up, and smeared blood all over his blue button-up.

Norman struggled to open his eyes; he'd blink a couple hundred times, get them open for a moment, and then have to close them again. Hospital rooms always had too many lights. Squinting against the artificial ceiling fixtures, he was able to open them long enough to get a basic once over of his surroundings. Didn't look much like the OR, so that was probably a good thing.

Chancing a rather terrified glance down at his wrist, he noticed it was wrapped up in white bandages – something told him he required stitches, considering he had almost gone completely through the other side. Bandages were good, though, he didn't want to have to look at it just yet. He had seemingly been ignoring the pain until he looked at it, that's when a very sharp spasm shot through it, causing him to hiss and grip the sheets.

Around that time, when he was very obviously distracted with hurting, the door to his room had swung open, and the one and only Carter Blake had come swaggering in.

"Good mornin', sunshine."

Norman jumped, clearly not expecting to have company, especially not in the form of the police lieutenant. He eyed the man curiously, obviously beyond confused at this point. Why was he here? Since when did he care if he lived or died? He had recently pulled on a gun on him, threatening to paint the walls with his brains. He didn't understand.

"Figured ya' might be thirsty or somethin'."

Carter shrugged, stepping closer and placing a bottle of decaffeinated soda on the table – making sure the lid was loose enough first – before taking a seat beside the bed. Norman hardly noticed the jacket hanging on the chair, but then, he wasn't exactly expecting to have anybody there, so he didn't care much to look. It was odd. He couldn't figure out why he was acting so nice.

"Why are yah here?"

His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, not bothering to repeat the sentence. The room was quiet enough, other than the occasional click of the medication bag dripping through his IV. Oh, that could also be why he wasn't feeling very much pain. Duh. Idiot.

The police lieutenant shrugged, stretching out his limbs and groaning. He must've been there all night, he looked exhausted. He scratched at his beard, slouching in the very-uncomfortable-looking chair, and seemingly ignored his question.

"Doctor said you'd be able to leave as soon as you woke up, if you were…well, coherent. Looks to me like you are. You'll need a ride back to the motel, won't you? Be happy I stayed behind, kid."

Oh yeah, he was fucking _thrilled._


	3. ＩＩＩ．

A/N: It's been so long since I've done anything for this fic. But as requested, here's something to get it kickstarted again. Hope you enjoy! I promise things will pick up within the next couple of chapters. Feedback is always welcomed and updates will be regulated - no waiting two years again. Promise!

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><p>Norman was given strict orders to not return to the motel in which they had found his almost lifeless body, losing blood rapidly, lying cold on the linoleum bathroom floor. They asked him what he was doing, what had happened to cause such an accident — it was strange, usually people were able to pick up that Norman had a bit of a problem immediately. Most assumed it was alcohol. Others, he figured, just didn't say anything out of sympathy. Either way, it was odd, to not be questioned. He tried to come up with his best excuse without making himself seem like he was severely depressed and suicidal. There was no way he'd get out of there if they thought he was a danger to himself.<p>

He didn't have time to get the words out, though, to stutter some sort of lie straight through his teeth… because Carter was re-entering the hospital room, with folded clothing in his hands, and everything in the world just felt wrong. Carter Blake was being nice to him. The same man that had threatened to splatter his brains across the wall not even four days ago, was being so sweet it almost made him ill.

"Alright, alright, leave him alone…" His voice boomed against the empty walls.

Norman glanced up at the burly man, cocking a curious brow as he met his eyes, taking note that he looked away once contact was made, shoving the clothes towards him. Normally, Carter would do something childish — something to make Norman jump or back up a little, but he was almost acting… backwards.

"Get dressed and let's get the fuck outta here," He said, cutting off his thoughts, before turning his back to him.

Thoughts circled in his mind. The main question being: _get out and go where?_ Norman's temporary home was that motel room — the very motel room that his last five vials of Triptocaine were lying in. He had nowhere else to go. He didn't want to go anywhere else. But instead of choosing the question him and piss Carter off more than he already seemed to be, Norman carefully pushed himself up and off of the gurney, careful as to not put weight on his bandaged wrist, and did his best to get dressed with what mobility he had.

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><strong>

Norman was being pulled out of the car, not even an hour later — his strength not back, nor did he think it would be returning anytime soon, a bag in his left hand containing the medication the doctor had prescribed. Some sort of painkiller. Vicodin. Maybe Percocet. Morphine, even. He didn't bother to ask. Nothing would help, nothing but that little blue vial he was so desperate to get his hands on.

"Carter, you realize I can walk, right? It was my wrist," Norman said, in almost matter-of-fact tone.

Carter shrugged, helping Norman to his feet before setting his waist free, and walking around to get his bags from the trunk. It was still the strangest thing — a memory, faint, in the back of his mind, almost. The scent of Carter's cologne carrying in the gentle breeze, wafting up to his nose, and lighting up his senses. He only then remembered it had been him. He had found Norman, grasping to the very edge of life, despite not wanting to live. Carrying him down the ambulance. Sitting in the back with him. Ordering around the paramedics… doing what he could do, to make him comfortable.

"So, your place, 'eh?" Norman asked, already heading up the small pathway that led to the porch.

"What about it, kid?" Carter asked, voice almost rough. _Almost._ Like he couldn't make himself do it.

Norman glanced back with a small trace of a smirk, taking in the sight of Carter actually doing something for him. Being nice, for once in his life, _considerate_. He figured he would soak it up while he could, because it would never happen again.

"They might be blind, but I'm not a fuckin' idiot,_ Norman_. I know it's drugs. You gotta kick that shit, next time I ain't gonna be there to save your life, got it?"

His smiled dropped immediately, a lump forming in his throat when he went to swallow, suddenly feeling his palms grow clammy and slick, his hands shaking. Almost as if he were going through another withdrawal. It wasn't. It was reality. The realization that his secret was out. Carter knew. He knew but he cared. He wasn't giving him a speech, something about ruining his life, killing himself slowly with each hit he took. He was concerned.

The air shifted, Carter's shoulder bumping into Norman's as the younger stopped walking, stopping almost dead in his tracks. No pun intended. Carter glanced back, brows furrowing in confusion. Almost a trace of worry.

"The fuck is it now? You feelin' alright? You look pale as shit, kid. C'mon, let's get you inside."

Norman felt Carter's hand wrap around his bicep, pulling him towards the front door. He didn't know what to say. What he was supposed to say. What do you say to someone who just called you out on your drug addiction? There wasn't anything.

"I… uh, al- alright," He stuttered out, breathless, moving his feet in time to not trip over the lift in the concrete.

Norman was half in a daze as Carter led him to his bedroom. His _bedroom_. Mentioning something about how he would be sleeping here, and Carter, himself, would be taking the couch. He opened his mouth to speak, but just ended up shaking his head, not to say no, never to say no — perhaps it was a way to say that he had no clue how to respond, that he was almost… speechless, just for a completely different reason.

His concern. His worries. His care. Carter was taking care of Norman. Making sure he was safe, comfortable, fed, and happy. It was only then, that Norman had realized something incredibly terrifying.

It wasn't the fact that Carter called him out on the Triptocaine thing, maybe that didn't matter at all, really.

Norman was feeling things he shouldn't have been. He was growing attached. Too attached. He was relying on him. He had only realized when they touched, when Carter showed him sort of affection in a way that wasn't just verbal. When his usual rough, violent touch was soft and compassionate.

He was falling for him and he was scared _shitless_.


End file.
